


Drive

by dakiniten



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Hand Jobs, Incest, M/M, Masturbation, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-26
Updated: 2010-01-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 10:05:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2688779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dakiniten/pseuds/dakiniten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite what Sam says, Dean has a pretty good handle on the differences between reality and porn. So it doesn't occur to him that calling it a night way earlier than usual may lead to some interesting discoveries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drive

**Author's Note:**

> Contains incestuous boysex. This is something of a first-time fic - I normally wouldn't bother to make that note but it reads entirely differently if you start out with the notion that the boys are already in a relationship. Title and inspiration from the song "Drive" by Melissa Ferrick. This is my first attempt at writing actual explicit slash, so bear with me. I don't own anything, no money being made, I'm just playing in the sandbox.

When Dean told Sam not to wait up, he hadn’t thought he would take the instructions to heart. He hadn’t said “see you in the morning”, which was Dean-speak for “I’m spending the night elsewhere” – he specifically said “don’t wait up”, which translated to “I am going to be very late returning.” Sam _always_ waited up. He was always awake when Dean came back to the room, no matter how ungodly late it was, and he never said anything about it. He would glance up from whatever he was doing, make sure Dean hadn’t been mauled, and then climb into bed and go to sleep. So Dean was confused when there wasn’t a light on in their motel room when he pulled back up in the parking lot at scarcely eleven o’clock. There was a very dim glow through the thin curtain that might have been the bathroom light across the room, but Sam usually kept the desk light on when he was waiting up for Dean. 

The bar Dean had gone to only had crappy microbrew – “all out of domestic until the truck comes tomorrow,” the skeevy bartender had informed him, not looking the least bit sorry for the inconvenience – and no one wanted to play pool. Or darts. Or anything else that Dean knew how to hustle. And to top it all off, the jukebox hadn’t had anything worth listening to in it. So he had given up, disgusted, and decided to go back to the motel and hang with Sam. At least he could pick up some real beer at a convenience store.

Now he was sitting in the Impala in the parking lot, staring at the window of their room, wondering if Sam had really gone to sleep. Maybe that was his secret when he was waiting up, maybe he took power naps until after midnight, then the alarm on his phone would go off and he’d wake up and pretend to look long-suffering until Dean dragged himself back in for the night. Although the temptation was strong, the elder Winchester decided against slamming into the room and waking his brother up with a start. He could cut Sammy some slack, just this once. He’d sneak into the room, turn off the alarm on the phone, and let Sam have at least one night of uninterrupted sleep. God knew they both needed as many of those as they could get.

Dean was as quiet as possible entering the motel room, developing tunnel vision in his single-minded attempt not to disturb the salt line at the door. He was trying desperately to close and lock the door silently, but when the chain clinked a bit as the extra latch slid into place, he nearly broke his neck whipping around to see if the sound had woken Sam. Only Sam wasn’t fast asleep in his own bed. He was sprawled across _Dean’s_ bed, bare feet hanging haphazardly off the end of the mattress. Dean knew he probably looked like a cartoon, eyes the size of dinner plates, but he couldn’t stop himself from assessing Sam’s current… _state_ …in slow motion.

Bare feet hanging off the end of Dean’s bed. Attached to nine miles of bare legs, which ended in slightly ratty boxer shorts that were tented obscenely in a valiant effort to restrain a rampant erection. Bare chest, rising and falling with deep breaths. Heart pounding visibly beneath the skin as large hands skimmed over the surface, fingers slightly trembling. Neck bared prettily with head thrown back, eyes shut and tongue darting out to moisten lips, mouth forming words that could have been a silent prayer. Earbuds attached to iPod playing whatever was blocking the deafening _silence_ of Dean’s shock.

Dean had only walked in on Sam having “alone time” once, when Sam was thirteen, and had ribbed him mercilessly for two weeks. Sam must have figured out pretty quickly how to meet his needs without getting caught, because it never happened again. They spent more time together than was really healthy for two individuals - even married people didn’t see as much of each other as Sam and Dean – but somehow this had never been an issue. Before now, that is. Because right now, it was definitely an issue. This was wrong in ways that Dean couldn’t even wrap his mind all the way around.

First of all, Sam was in Dean’s bed instead of his own. _Rude, much?_ Secondly, was he really listening to his iPod? Because Dean cracked on him all the time about being a girl but _seriously._ Thirdly, and this was the part that really melted Dean’s brain, why the hell was this image of Sam, mostly naked and spread out in front of him like a goddamned offering, making heat pool dangerously in Dean’s belly? He kept reminding himself that this was his _brother_ for crying out loud, but that heat just kept swirling stronger and hotter, and Dean felt an inexplicable urge to lick the groove that started at Sam’s hip and disappeared from sight at the waistband of his boxers.

Dean shook his head to clear it, but no such luck. Sam’s hips had started undulating slowly, and one hand had freed his cock from the confines of his underwear while the other continued exploring the expanse of his chest. Sam scraped a fingernail lightly across one nipple, hissing softly at the sensation. Suddenly, Dean understood the term _time stood still._

Something way back in the recesses of his mind, the detached place where objective reasoning came from, observed that the two feet between Dean and the bed was much more than a distance. On this side Dean was Dean, Sam’s big brother who watched his back and stitched his cuts and gave him shit about his hair. On this side, Dean’s sudden desire to touch Sam sexually was wrong, inappropriate, but kept to himself. On the other side, there on the bed with Sam, going from wanting to touch to actually touching brought Dean from inappropriate to _illegal,_ and likely to get punched in the fucking face. But Dean’s body had become disconnected from his rational mind, and recognizing the line for what it was did not stop his feet from crossing it in two strides.

Sam was panting; eyes shut tight, hips rolling upward into nothing, both hands now fisted in the worn motel comforter. He seemed to be making it a point not to touch his dick, which looked painfully hard. The slit glistened with a pearl of precome. Dean couldn’t help it – he sat on the edge of the bed and reached out, fingertips barely grazing the underside of Sam’s straining cock. He heard Sam’s startled intake of breath and turned to look at his face. Sam’s eyes snapped open, and Dean watched as his pupils contracted then expanded again as he focused on Dean. That was a look Dean recognized well enough, and he was sure his own expression was a pretty close match. _Lust._ Dean curled his fingers around his brother’s dick, feeling the searing heat and the smoothness of the skin and Sam’s pulse right beneath his fingers.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean murmured. His hand had begun stroking Sam, slowly, exploring his brother’s cock. Like his own, only not. Attached to Sam. Strange, but unbelievably hot at the same time. “Let me drive, yeah?” He tried to smile, not sure if he achieved the impish grin he was going for. What he really wanted to say was _please don’t kill me for this_ but somehow those words wouldn’t come out. Sam’s eyebrows shot up in a look of disbelief that would have been comical in just about any other circumstance, but a firm downstroke chased that expression away. Dean watched, rapt, as Sam’s eyes fluttered closed and his chest rose and fell unevenly, like he was reminding himself to breathe.

Dean was not going to waste an opportunity for a valuable learning experience. He studied Sam’s reactions to varied speed and pressure, as well as his own favorite moves – a twist on the upstroke, swiping his thumb over the head to spread the slickness there – and Sam certainly didn’t disappoint. He started making greedy little whimpering sounds that set Dean’s blood on fire, and he was thrusting his hips in earnest now, face contorted into an incredibly erotic mask of pleasure-bordering-on-pain. Dean could tell by the way Sam arched off the bed and threw his head back that he was close.

Giving in to the need for just one taste, he leaned over and ran his tongue along the hollow of Sam’s collarbone. It was salty and hot and delicious. He gave a small hum of pleasure as he nipped the skin lightly, then latched on to suck a small mark onto his brother’s shoulder. _Mine._ This would probably destroy them and Sam would probably never speak to him again, but his mark would remain, at least for a little while.

“Oh, shit…Dean!” Sam’s voice was hoarse. Dean felt every muscle in his brother’s body tense, cock throbbing beneath his fingers as it pulsed his release, coating Sam’s stomach and boxers and Dean’s fingers. Suddenly shy, Dean sat up and pulled his hand away from Sam’s softening prick. He was still impossibly hard himself, but the ass-kicking he was about to carry would get rid of that problem, he was sure. He forced himself to focus on the hickey he had given his brother – _and isn’t that a fucked up thought all by itself_ – as Sam turned off the iPod, took out the earbuds and tossed the device onto the bedside table, propping up on his elbows and leveling his gaze on Dean.

“Look, Sammy, I…I’m sorry, I don’t know what –" Dean stammered, couldn’t find the words he wanted, _needed_ to say, to make this right.

“Don’t you dare,” Sam cut him off, sitting up fully and taking Dean’s wrists in his hands. “I had hoped you wouldn’t find out that I…how I feel about you, and certainly not like this, but I’m not sorry.” He closed his eyes for a moment, took a shuddering breath, then seemed to steel himself. He turned his best Serious Business face on Dean. “So don’t you dare try to take it back. Now, we can agree to never speak of this again, if that’s what you want,” Dean didn’t miss the slightly crestfallen look on his face as he said it. “Or do you want me to take care of you?” Sam glanced pointedly at Dean’s crotch. _Hoped I wouldn’t find out…Oh. OH. Well, that makes all the difference in the world, then._ Dean could almost hear his body and its desires reconciling with his rational mind. Because they did illegal shit all the time, and this really was only marginally more fucked up than the rest of the things they had dealt with in their lives. And if this was something that Sam wanted, well, Dean could get behind that. In more ways than one, hopefully.

Dean’s smile felt like turning on the sun, and Sam mirrored it, plus dimples. Allowing Sam to pull him down onto the bed, Dean felt, for once, like something had turned out right for the Winchester boys.


End file.
